


bound up by your thread

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Aftercare, Bondage, Breast Play, Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, F/F, Light BDSM, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Ribbons, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Shibari, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Fisting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-04 06:28:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21193097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: Hawke always wraps herself up in duty. It’s time to let someone else wrap her up for a change.





	bound up by your thread

**Author's Note:**

  * For [commanderlurker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/commanderlurker/gifts).

> Hi commanderlurker! I adore this ship and your prompts were an absolute delight, I was very excited reading your letter!
> 
> Thanks and credit to my beta, [BigDickens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigdickens).

“You’re late,” says Isabela, crossing her legs. Long satin ribbons caress her ankles, draping down her thighs and pooling on the floor. More are twined around her wrists and arms, laced between her bangles and muffling their musical clinks. It should be a cat’s-cradle snarl, but they’re loose and easily tugged. Easily freed.

“And you’re early,” is Hawke’s good-natured reply. Her eyes are bruised deep with exhaustion, but her smile stays bright as ever. “I see you already found your presents.”

“Presents? For me?” Isabela moues, fluttering her lashes. “These pretty things? I was going to steal them, but now you’ve taken all the fun out of it.”

Hawke always runs late, always dealing with nonsense at the Bone Pit or looking for lost children or rescuing puppies or any of a half-dozen other things that people in this useless city positively _cannot_ manage on their own. And it’s only gotten worse since that nasty business with the Arishok.

If Isabela were a better person, she might feel guilt. Except she refuses, on account of the fact that guilt is just another anchor to drag you down, but oh. She can do penance, if that’s what it takes. She won’t kneel for prayer, but she’ll get on her knees for Hawke. She could never _give up_ anything for love, that sort of sacrifice is for fools and martyrs, but she’ll _give_ all that she has.

Hawke taught her that, damn her.

“That’s me, always the spoilsport,” Hawke says agreeably, happily interrupting Isabela’s threatening stream of melancholia. Hawke rolls her shoulders back, suppressing a yawn with one hand before stooping to kiss Isabela. Isabela, however, had already risen on tip-toe to try stealing a kiss of her own, so they bump noses with a mutual squawk before readjusting into a familiar pattern of lips and touch.

Hawke is always a gentlewoman, even now, after years of sticking tongues and fingers into every conceivable orifice, so she does not grope or try sliding her hand up Isabela’s bare thighs.

Isabela, however, has no such compunctions. She fumbles at Hawke’s belt, yanking it open so she can ruck up Hawke’s shirt to expose the seams of taut muscle and ridged keloid. It’s still awful—not just terrible, but _awe_-full, the original sense of the word— every time Isabela touches it. It’s living proof that Hawke has endured so much for Isabela’s selfish hide, and Hawke is so goddamn _noble_ that she never brings it up, never uses it as the coup de grace for petty arguments.

So when Hawke starts to say, “I’ve been thinking—” Isabela punctures it as swiftly as she can.

“Oh? Did it hurt?” Isabela nips at Hawke’s exposed ribs, ghosting her fingers just above the ticklish squish of Hawke’s hips.

Hawke giggles, only it collides with a snort and comes out as a horrific honk instead. It’s unlovely and ridiculous and Isabela treasures it. “Oh, it always hurts. But specifically, this time, I was thinking about tying you up in ribbons. Just ribbons.”

“And nothing else?”

“Well, I was hoping for a smile.”

“Hm. Tempting.” Isabela taps her chin, then buries her nose in Hawke’s navel. Mm, clean. The belly button is one of the body’s most underrated sexual attractions, and too few people wash theirs properly. “But I’ll raise you one better. How about _you_ wrapped up in ribbons and a smile?”

As if Hawke hadn’t been the one doing all the wrapping, the last half dozen times they’ve done this. Never mind that Hawke’s probably not keeping score, never mind that Hawke’s ties are still utterly laughable and Isabela doesn’t have the heart to teach her better. Never mind that Isabela would never consent to being tied in anything she can’t escape.

“Oh? Are you sure?”

Hawke’s trying to be sporting about it, but Isabela can spot the flash of longing in her eyes.

“Mhm. Positively.” Isabela kisses Hawke’s belly again, and puffs cool air across the fine hairs dusting her skin. It’s not—she thinks—that Hawke has a kink for tying people up so much as taking _care_ of them, making herself responsible for every oodle of pleasure that they get out of it. Like Hawke’s taken that whole ‘do unto others’ as a commandment. It’s the sort of thing they should probably talk about, but that veers too close to examining the sincerity of their relationship and all the vows unspoken. It’s a fragile state of existence, a tightrope balance that only holds as long as Isabela doesn’t say and Hawke doesn’t ask.

Hawke’s bloody great scar—and the fact that Isabela came back—should be a good enough answer, anyway.

Hawke always wraps herself up in duty. It’s time to let someone else wrap her up for a change.

So Isabela pulls the ribbons from her wrists and thighs, letting them puddle on the floor before selecting one. A red one, to match that silly paint that Hawke always wears. Isabela folds it in half, fingering the double-sided finish, and sits on the bed. She spreads her knees, patting the gap between her thighs. Hawke follows, docile as a puppy, and offers her wrists.

“No, sweet thing. Behind your back.”

Hawke grins, hair shadowing her eyes as she leans forward. A light kiss on Isabela’s forehead, nothing lingering, then turning around with her arms behind her back.

One of the nice things about Hawke—one of the _many_ nice things, besides the muscles like marble, besides the way she smells after sex and the way her laugh cracks when she’s tickled—is that she’s so delightfully _bendy_ despite being so solid. Hawke already knows the position to hold: wrists parallel behind her back, palms loosely gripping her forearms. She’s not quite flexible enough to touch her fingers to her elbows, but the middle finger of her top hand nudges into the crook of her arm.

Isabela takes a moment to admire this picture, the way Hawke’s shoulders square up and the way her arms frame the expanse of her back. Gorgeous. Utterly gorgeous. Well worth staring at, but Isabela knows Hawke will look even prettier when wrapped. So she loops the bend around the center of Hawke’s arms, taking care that the ribbons lie smooth, soft and shimmering. Once, twice, thrice for good measure, holding the end with her thumb as she reaches under the cuff to make a loop. She pulls, finishing the bowline and testing the pressure. It’s tight enough to press Hawke’s flesh, to dimple the muscles of her forearms, but not enough that Hawke can’t give Isabela’s fingers a reassuring squeeze when Isabela taps her palm.

Isabela can focus on the _fun_ parts now, rising to her feet so she can wrap the tails across Hawke’s left shoulder, aiming for the swell of muscle just below the joint. Careful to avoid the dip between the muscles, the sensitive pinch of nerve that could oh-so-easily make things go numb and painful. Hawke’s good about checking in with Isabela, despite her clumsy knots and escapable ties, so Isabela can hardly do less. Isabela continues around Hawke’s upper chest. Over the shoulder. Around. Parallel, laying more straight lines of ribbon. Occasionally adjusting so they stay picture-pretty. Isabela usually prefers rope over ribbons because the ribbon’s trickier to lay evenly, but the contrast—soft ribbon and hard muscle, smooth satin and scarred skin—makes a pretty sight. She is careful with the knots; the slippery ribbon means that the knots can pull so _tight_. She’ll cut the ribbons if she has to, but it seems a shame to waste such loveliness on frenzied hacking if she needs to untie Hawke in a hurry.

On the last loop, Isabela wraps under the stem, then reverses, creating a friction knot that anchors the arm cuffs to the bands across Hawke’s shoulders. This is the tricky bit, and Hawke’s soft gasp tells Isabela she needs to give more slack, so she kisses an apology on Hawke’s shoulder as she loosens it.

“There. Better?”

“Much.” Hawke wriggles her fingers, letting out a deep sigh. “I love when you tie me up. Feels like a full-body hug.”

Isabela chuckles, kissing Hawke’s neck. “I’ll have to tie you up more often, then.”

Hawke hums agreement as Isabela wraps the ribbon around her arms again, just under the breasts. Hawke has lovely breasts, small and firm, with dark brown nipples that tighten like pebbles. Isabela spares a moment to kiss one, swiping the tip with her tongue, then kisses the other so it won’t get jealous. Hawke gives a full-body shiver, and it takes all of Isabela’s limited self-control to finish wrapping the ribbons under Hawke’s breasts and anchor them in the back. She cinches the ribbons, then brings the tails forward and through the arm. Under the lower band. Under the upper band. Adjusting, tightening everything in place so it frames Hawke’s chest. Then the other side, finishing so that the ribbons act as shelves, squeezing the lean flesh of her breasts and bringing them forward for Isabela’s inspection.

It’s tempting to just finish here, to let the tails flutter loose so Isabela can rush to the good stuff. But Isabela ties them off anyway.

And oh—Hawke is gorgeous, lovely as stolen silver within her bindings. Her broad shoulders are drawn back, firm and square, and the ribbons accentuate the muscles of her chest and arms. Strange to think that one so strong can be so helpless, and so willing to be so, but it’s a trust more precious than rubies. Isabela skates her fingers across Hawke’s skin, savoring the contrast of textures, the smooth satin across the lines of hard muscle and soft skin. Hawke’s chest is exposed, thrust out for Isabela’s delectation, and Isabela can already smell the warm musk of Hawke’s arousal.

Isabela starts slow, teasing. She knows she can be as selfish as she wants, that Hawke will _let_ her be selfish, but Hawke deserves to have it drawn out. Some pleasures are better savored, like a slow melt of chocolate. Isabela wraps a hand around Hawke’s breast, cupping under the swell. Licks the other breast with slow, delicate laps of her tongue. Soft licks, followed by puffs of cool air that make Hawke shiver. A hint of tooth, grazing the skin, and Hawke’s breath catches like a fist around her throat.

“Don’t stay quiet on _my_ account,” Isabela murmurs, wrapping her mouth around Hawke’s nipple and biting down.

Hawke lets out a startled yelp, chest forward and sternum smashing Isabela’s cheek. Isabela growls into her ribs, gnawing and sucking at the tender flesh to leave it wet and bruising. Hawke gives a satisfying little whimper, and Isabela pinches the other tit—just this side of savage, drawing out the music of Hawke’s moans. It’s call and response, dragging out the notes of Hawke’s pleasure as Isabela sets herself to marking a path of rosettes, tiny nibbles that travel from the side of Hawke’s breast to the dark target of her nipple. Isabela soothes the angry flesh after with a swipe of her tongue.

Hawke is just so bound up in _control_. Isabela loves pulling her apart, piece by piece, like the leaves of an artichoke. Watching all those defenses come crumbling down as Hawke’s shoulders tense, as she rocks forward on her feet, muscles cording beneath the ribbon before Isabela pats her ass and murmurs, “Easy, easy.”

“Easy for _you_ to say,” Hawke groans, eyes screwed shut. “Your mouth…”

Isabela chuckles. “Open your eyes. Look at me.”

Hawke’s pupils are blown wide, eyes glassy and her lips bitten so hard there’s a smear of blood at the corner of her mouth. Isabela licks her thumb, dabbing it away. Her bangles clink against each other, the only sound other than Hawke’s ragged breathing.

“Do you want me to stop?”

Hawke shudders. “Maker, no. Not for the life of me.”

“Do you want me to slow down?”

Hawke’s head drops, hanging low as a shiver ripples all the way through her spine. “I don’t know.” She swallows, the gulp of it echoing in the space between them. “I just—I want to stop thinking.” Her voice breaks, pleading. “I want to stop having to make _decisions_ all the time.”

Isabela wraps her arms around Hawke, cheek pressed to Hawke’s belly and fingers touching Hawke’s bound hands. Hawke squeezes her fingers, tight and fierce, and Isabela lets out a long breath.

“Poor baby. I can do that for you. No more decisions for now, promise. Just tell me if anything is too much, okay?”

Isabela can feel rather than see Hawke’s emphatic nod, the muscles twitching beneath her cheek. Isabela turns her head to kiss Hawke’s navel. Then the jagged wound from the Arishok, the reminder that they’re knit together like scar tissue.

Hawke’s already a trembling wreck, just this side of tears, so Isabela steers her onto the bed. Isabela fluffs up a cushion to support Hawke’s back, trying to avoid putting weight on those bound hands, and kneels between Hawke’s legs to trail kisses and tiny nibbles across her skin. She traces the line of Hawke’s belly and the divot of her hips, making her way to the delta of the thighs. Isabela’s breath stirs the crinkle-coarse expanse of hair as she uses both hands to open Hawke up, exposing the tight bud of her clit.

Hawke whimpers, drawing her knees together, but Isabela elbows them aside and gives a stern command to stay, stay, and Hawke lets them fall apart with a shiver. Isabela kisses her just above the clit, then laves her tongue through the slick folds and creases of Hawke’s body. No direct contact with the clit, just a lazy exploration of Hawke’s sex. She maps the trickles and tributaries of Hawke’s arousal, the clear slick already sopping her thighs. Isabela tests a finger, nudging it to Hawke’s entrance and sliding it all the way in to the knuckle without any resistance.

Hawke lets out a throaty moan, bucking her hips onto Isabela’s hand and grinding on her palm. Isabela obliges by adding a second finger. She crooks them together, searching for the spot that makes Hawke writhe, that makes Hawke moan as Isabela rubs a gentle circle, still licking and nuzzling and feeling Hawke’s body flutter so close to the peak—

Before stopping, pulling her fingers out and wiping them across Hawke’s trembling belly.

“Why. Why did you _stop_,” Hawke rasps.

“Because I want you to come with my hand inside you, sweet thing.” Isabela kisses Hawke’s belly, licking the salt and tang of her arousal. “And we’re not going to get there unless I tease you a little.”

“Mm.” Hawke groans, rolling her shoulders as if to shake off her frustration. She juts her chin to the nightstand. “There’s—there’s oil in there. If you want.”

Isabela laughs. “The day I forget where we keep the oil is the day I’m joining the Chantry.”

Hawke shrugs sheepishly.

Isabela bites the soft roll of Hawke’s abdomen, making it jiggle between her teeth before sliding her fingers back inside Hawke. Slowly, slowly. Always pulling back before Hawke gets to reach her peak, alternating between more tongue and more fingers, her bangles rattling in punctuation with every thrust. Isabela works her tongue in broad strokes, gentle washes of heat that travel up and down and slowly centering on Hawke’s clit, then working in harder juts of her tongue and letting the metal stud on her tongue rub over the hood of Hawke’s clit, then wrapping her mouth over and giving a hard suck that has Hawke’s heels drumming her shoulders, that pushes Hawke close enough that Isabela can taste the orgasm bubbling off her like fizzy wine before Isabela pulls out, pulls back. Leaves Hawke clenching on nothing, all keyed up with nowhere to go.

“Isabela. You’re a torment,” rasps Hawke.

“Mm. I know.” Isabela giggles, pulling off her bracelets. She drops them onto the nightstand in ones and twos, letting them clink and chime against the wood.

“I should never have given you so many bracelets.”

“But you love spoiling me!”

“No more bracelets. Earrings, maybe. Or piercings.”

“And you don’t think I can torment you with those?” Isabela grins, sticking out her tongue to flash her stud.

Hawke groans.

Now seems a good time for the oil, so Isabela opens up the drawer. The scrape of the wood seems to bring Hawke back to herself, at least a little, as she watches Isabela pull out the bottle. Isabela hums to herself as she pours a generous glug over her palm, rubbing her hands together to make a slippery sheen. She loves the smell of it, the tropical sweetness of coconut reminding her of warm Rivaini summers. Olive oil is easier to get in Kirkwall, but Hawke pays attention to these little things.

Which means it’s only fair that Isabela pays attention to the _big_ things.

She bundles her thumb and fingers together, then gives Hawke’s clit one more lingering kiss before setting her fingers at Hawke’s opening. Gentle, gentle—she reads the tension in Hawke’s thighs as a reminder to go slow, achingly so—and works her way up. Two fingers, three, four, thumb tucked as she slides past the knuckles, wrist entering the warm welcome of Hawke’s body. Isabela holds still, honey-slow and sweet as she kisses the swell of Hawke’s belly, massaging the tremble of Hawke’s thighs as Hawke clenches tight. Hawke’s so muscular all over, it’s hardly a surprise that her inner walls are just as strong, gripping Isabela as if to bruise her. But with a little patience, a little tenderness, a little kissing and nuzzling, and Hawke relaxes enough that Isabela can start moving her hand. No thrusting, just the steady rock of her gentle fist.

“Oh ‘Bela, Isabela…”

Isabela kisses Hawke’s clit with a broad, wet swirl of lips and tongue that drags another shudder from Hawke, another breathless moan that Isabela teases out. Isabela’s soaked down her forearm, and Hawke’s face is red and straining, chest heaving and Isabela’s red-wet bites standing out like roses, arcing ever closer to climax—

And then Hawke gasps, warm and electric, heels digging into the mattress as her body bows and flexes in ecstatic, bone-grinding clench around Isabela’s fist. Isabela lets Hawke ride it out, prolonging it with a slow suck on Hawke’s clit, a final flutter of her tongue that wrings a helpless giggle from her bound lover.

“Too much, Isabela! Too much!”

“Sorry.” Isabela kisses Hawke’s thigh, easing her hand free. It’s always easier on the way out—thank goodness, or that would be one _hell_ of a trip to the clinic— but ‘easier’ still pulls a low groan from Hawke.

“How are you feeling, sweetness?”

“Sore. But good.”

Isabela wipes her hand on the sheets, wadding them around her slippery fingers. It’ll probably stain, but they’ve never been sticklers about the linen. Isabela’s always viewed clean sheets as somebody else’s problem anyway.

She takes her time unbinding Hawke, rubbing the skin where the ribbon’s bit in. There are marks, dark lines crossing the flesh, but Hawke denies any numbness or tingling.

When Hawke’s hands come undone, she squeezes Isabela by the wrists before tilting her face up, offering a kiss like supplication.

“‘Bela, thank you. Thank you so much. But what about you? Would you like…?”

“No, sweetness.” Isabela ruffles Hawke’s hair, tousling it into funny angles and accidentally-or-not wiping it with sex and oil. Marking Hawke, the same way that Hawke’s marked her. “Your extravagant bed and magnificent larder are all I need. Stay put, I’ll get you some tea.”

Isabela pads her way downstairs, feeling her way across the banister and to the kitchen. She does this in the dark, by memory and by moonlight. Turning on a light would feel too _proper_, and Isabela’s more rightfully a thief—at least until she bangs her shins across a low stool and hobbles the rest of the way, cursing.

“Bela?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine!”

Isabela turns on the mage-lights in the kitchen—a luxury, but one that Hawke can well afford—and reaches for the pot of tea she already made when she first invaded Hawke’s home. It’s a Rivaini recipe, a ginger tea rich with cinnamon and turmeric. She came early just so she could shoo Orana out of the kitchen and make it herself. Not out of altruism, oh no. Isabela respects Orana as one working woman to the next, and Hawke pays Orana a more than decent wage so Orana _can_ cook and make tea and fiddly little rolled pastries with sausage. But as long as only _Isabela _knows how to make the spicy ginger tea that Hawke likes, then Isabela’s safe. It’s all part of her scheme, you see.

Isabela knows better than to think she’s indispensable, but at least she can be irreplaceable.


End file.
